


Grant Them Everlasting Rest.

by CountlessUntruths (KaliCephirot)



Category: Vassalord
Genre: M/M, Religious talk in sexual context.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-04
Updated: 2009-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliCephirot/pseuds/CountlessUntruths
Summary: Pleasure tastes so bittersweet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because [](http://telrunya.livejournal.com/profile)[telrunya](http://telrunya.livejournal.com/) was feeling down.

**Title:** Grant Them Everlasting Rest.  
**Fandom:** Vassalord.  
**Warnings:** Religious talk in sexual context.  
**Characters/couples:** Charles/Rayflo.  
**Summary:** Pleasure tastes so bittersweet.  
**Rating:** NC17.  
**Notes:** Because [](http://telrunya.livejournal.com/profile)[**telrunya**](http://telrunya.livejournal.com/) was feeling down.

 **Grant Them Everlasting Rest.**  
The lighter goes on. Charles gets the whiff of nicotine as he finishes up buttoning his jacket. Johnny doesn't reach for him. Charles imagines him propped against the pillow, tanned fingers around the cigarette. He imagines the hardness of his chest, the bite marks, the dark tousled hair: he doesn't have to imagine the scent.

“When will you be back?” his master asks offhandedly.

Charles stands up, picks up his sword. “Never.”

Johnny chuckles, a deep throaty sound that Charles wishes didn't cause a reaction. He strides to the door.

“See you in a few weeks, Cherry,” his master drawls.

Charles resists the urge to slam the door shut.

**

It hurts. He feels himself bleeding away and Charles gasps brokenly, trying to gather enough air, air that is not quite filling his lungs. He feels himself gurgling, blood getting inside his lungs instead of air and he realizes that he's scared. Oh God, he says, he prays. Oh God, I don't want to die, I don't want to die.

"It's okay," his master says, gently. How much had he wanted to see him, Charles thinks. How many years he went through towns and cities and countries searching for him. How many years he dreamed of seeing him again, of touching him again.

And now master touches him, broad hands on his face, on his shoulder, one of the few places wher he doesn't hurt. Master looks heartbreakingly sad and more than the wounds, more than his blood mixing with mud and rain, Johnny's expression is what hurts him the most.

"It's okay, Chris," master tells him again with a small smile, rain falling down his face, down his hair, his lips. "It won't be long now. It's okay, just..."

He's talking about him. It won't be long before he dies and Charles doesn't quite sob but he's close to that. He would have sobbed if not for the fact that he can't draw enough air for that, not when he's torn all over, when his body is completely broken, when he can't even move to grasp his master's hands. He remembers being young, four or five years old and having nightmares, and he remembers master's hands touching him then, waking him up, and a inane part of him thinks that would be true as well.

His eyes burn and he feels his blood gurgle inside himself and he can't do a thing about it.

But--

"I don't want to leave master alone," Charles says.

**

Johnny moans when he bites him, and there's sometimes a chuckle, sometimes his name ('Chris') on his lips. Charles tries not to think of it, tries not to listen, not to feel, tries to let go--

\-- but the _taste._

Charles touches Johnny: hands sliding up his thighs, up his sides, curling tight against him before he bites, before he feels the taste of his master on his tongue and he would moan as well, he would moan if he wasn't busy sucking, licking, tasting, devouring this cursed life of his master and his both, and if he makes any noise it comes out more as a sob.

“Easy,” Johnny chides him, but when he touches him is only to curl a hand on the nape of his neck, to feel the slide of muscle under his shirt. Charles feels the sheets slide underneath his knees, and he feels Johnny's body pressed against his as close as it can. One of his hand fist in the sheets, the other one in Johnny's hair and he bares his neck, straining upwards for more of this, feeling the bed dipping under their weight.

“Cherry,” Johnny says, but he pays no attention as he moves low, pressing his tongue against Johnny's collarbone and shoulder, almost tasting the deep musk of his armpits, feeling the almost salt of his nape. “Chris.”

He shudders at that name, his name, and Johnny never stops him from feeding, lets him have his fill, shudders each time that Charles' fangs pierce through skin and muscle, at how it feels when Charles sucks.

“Please,” Johnny says, breathless, arching of the bed like sin, tasting like sin, sharing sin, and Charles can never find it on himself not to fall for this, on this, with this.

Pleasure tastes so bittersweet.

**

Sometimes, Charles thinks that perhaps he shouldn't try to go so long without feeding, because it only makes him more desperate. When he goes weeks and weeks without any blood, when he can't remember the heavy taste of iron of master's blood on his tongue, that's when he craves it the most. Perhaps he shouldn't wait until he's so needy, when the urge and desire sing promises of delight and he's too weak not to pay attention to them.

 _Holy Father,_ he thinks and prays, and he feels the urge inside his body. Please, free me of this. Please, Father, please. Hear Thy son, welcome thy lamb unto thy bosom, please, please. Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil.

He prays and prays. He waits for the craving inside him to melt away, for him not to need this, for him not to need _him._

It's always Johnny's face he sees when he prays.

**

_I love you, Chris. It's just a whisper and he's sleepy. He tries opening his eyes, because master is talking and he likes to hear what master says even if he doesn't understand him yet. Chris would like to grow to be very smart, as smart as master, so that he can talk with him all the time._

I love you, Chris, and that's why you can't... you don't belong in this world, master says. Chris tries to wake up, but the smell of smoke and lotion of master is familiar, and the blanket is warm even if master isn't, and he's sleepy. Chris wants to tell him that he doesn't know about worlds (he will one day, because one day he'll read a lot and he'll travel a lot and he'll know many, many things to show master how grateful he is) but that the one thing he knows is that he belongs to master.

I love you, Chris. Chris is sleepy and he can't find it in himself to wake up, to tell master that it's okay, that he knows, and that he loves him as well.  



End file.
